by Kevin Feeney

Those of you who knew me during my days at 826 Valencia might be surprised to hear how much I’ve changed these first few months as a Harvardian. I own nearly thirty maroon sweater vests and seven pairs of loafers. Honestly, I’d die without them. I spend my weekends sipping red wine and chain smoking with my hundred or so closest friends, listing things I hate – people who ask how I’m doing, people who cough without excusing themselves, and most of all, anyone who considers granola a meal or even a meal-subsidy. I’m an economics concentrator. That’s what we call majors at Harvard – concentrations. Well, I think I’m an economics concentrator. Government’s my second choice. Either way, I hope to become an executive of an oil firm some day. That way I can embezzle millions of dollars and evade taxes. I should mention this diary is extremely difficult for me to write. When I say write, I mean dictate. I hired a fellow named Tanner to transcribe it for me.

I would keep going, but I’m a terrible liar. I blush easily, and tend to look down at my feet too often. None of what I’ve written so far is true, save the embezzlement part. I haven’t even met anyone who fits such a characterization at Harvard. The story goes that a few years back, a gremlin named Louis descended upon this institution and turned all the snobs to stone. That’s where all the statues of rich white men come from.

The truth is, from the week I spent cleaning dorm bathrooms all the way to tonight, election night, where, just a T-Stop away, John Kerry will (God-willing) deliver his victory speech, I’ve been having an incredible time here. More than anyone, or anything, I can thank my friends for that. I’ll introduce you to them now.

Meet Jose Mario. He’s from San Juan, Puerto Rico. The tallest and strongest of my friends, he’s the only one I know who carries around the “emergency whistle” that the Harvard University Police Department handed out during a safety presentation. Also, the giant plastic container on his back is not a jet pack. It’s a book bag. His sister bought it for him in New York. She thought it looked “cool.”

Meet Francis. Francis attended a high school with the same name – San Ignacio – as my own. He, like me, has a girlfriend who goes to Fairfield University. We often interrupt each other to say the same thing. Some tell us we look like twins. I’m not going to lie to you, though. I’m much, much more attractive. (This is the beauty of writing a diary.)

Meet Monica. Lover of sleep and stand-up comedy, Monica knows Jose Mario and Francis from back home. She is also my tutor in the art of Puerto Rican rap.

Meet El Gabo (or Gabriel). Gabo was born in Brazil, moved to France, then to Texas, then to Maryland, and now disparagingly calls New Jersey his home. Gabo and I are starting a humor magazine called the Fascist Goose, a publication whose goal is to cover all the horror of the imaginary Swedish Revolution, but never quite gets around to it.

Together, along with several others – namely Luis, Ramon and Areli from Puerto Rico, and Ross from Idaho – we call ourselves the Sharks, and we are out to destroy every last remaining Jet, if you catch the West Side Story reference. We eat together in the Cathedral-like Annenberg Hall, and make the rounds to what we deem worthy campus events. The most notable were a talk by Pedro Almodovar, and another by the President of Mozambique. We celebrated the triumph of the Red Sox over the Yankees and the Cardinals, and stood in Harvard Square as the city went hysterical and the Curse went up in flames. Most often, however, we eat food from Felipe’s and stay up to the wee hours discussing plans for Shark domination.

When neither Sharks nor Jets are prowling, I spend a good deal of time in the dorm room. Allow me to get defensive for a moment. When I say “spend a good deal of time in the dorm room,” that rarely involves crying, talking to myself, or sitting alone with the lights off. What I mean to say is, I’m helping Otto hang one of those cup-and-string phones out our window to talk to people on the ground floor; or, I’m trying my best to learn the newest Indian dance moves from Rajiiv; or, I’m skateboarding around the room with Mark; or, I’m laughing at the undies Jack must wear for the semi-nude scene in Equus. I am a very cool person, okay?

I’ve also been writing articles for FM, the Crimson’s weekend magazine. Thus far, I’ve profiled a Radio Shack super-employee, an alumnus who used to house homeless people in her dorm room, a psychology professor who studies happiness, and a student who, for several years now, has failed to start a sadomasochist club on campus. The sadomasochist article began as a short, 600-word piece, and evolved into the front-cover scrutiny over the course of several days. I found it draining, but also fascinating to immerse myself in someone else’s world, and to dedicate all my time – from 10 in the morning until 2 the next morning – to recreating that world on paper.

As for classes, I’m taking four: Intermediate Spanish, the Nature of Light and Matter, Literature and the Possibility of Justice, and Deductive Logic. I’ll spare you the details, but let me just make a few notes to sum up my academic experience thus far:

Intermediate Spanish – We listen to a Spanish mystery on tape. Can school get any better?
Deductive Logic – Prof. Heck has a knack for dark logic problems. Example: “All men beat their donkeys. Schematize it.”
Literature and the Possibility of Justice – In this ten-student seminar, we read Greek tragedies and learn that everything we thought we knew about justice is wrong. Never has a class required me to think so critically, so deeply. I love it. (It’s Pass or Fail, so no, I’m not sucking up.)
Nature of Light and Matter – Prof. Glauber, who received his doctorate here in 1949, is a big fan of practical jokes. He often ends his demonstrations and experiments by slipping on a pair of those glasses with the mustache and the nose attached. Then he lets out a loud chuckle.

I’d like to close with a beautiful scene, but before I do, let me outline a few goals I have before my next posting.

Join a volunteer organization
Exercise. At least once.
Become a permanent staff member of FM.
Subscribe to a newspaper.

Now, here’s a beautiful scene. Enjoy.

PETER PAN AND CAT MAN

Every Saturday night, in a concert pit next to the Harvard Square T-Stop, a crowd begins to gather, starting at nine o’clock, to hear a group of thirty-year-old men play rock cover songs. The band is quite good actually, but I do not join the audience for the music alone. I’m waiting for Peter Pan and Cat Man.

Whenever a musical group comes to the Square, Peter Pan is there. He doesn’t stand and watch like everybody else, however. No. Peter Pan plays. With his golden plastic recorder in hand, he squeezes his way through the crowd, stands right behind the band, and steals the show. I can’t hear him over the blaring guitar amplifiers, but just looking at him excites my eardrums. He lunges his head up and down, rolls his fingers over the holes of his recorder, and gives the occasional hoot of excitement. It doesn’t matter if it’s a guitar solo – Peter Pan plays. An acapella section? Peter Pan plays. It’s as though the sounds of every instrument–bass, vocals, drums, guitar – are flying out of his recorder.

While Peter Pan’s recorder – the bronco of musical instruments – takes him for a violent ride of jerks and spins, Cat Man makes his way to the center of the stage. A black top hat adorns his clay-shaped head. Across his face he dons a Cat Man mask, a black strip of plastic with vision holes. Then there is the fanny pack. The fanny pack, tied painfully tight around Cat Man’s waist, could very well have nothing in it – it’s absolutely necessary either way. The fanny pack’s straps exaggerate the overhanging bulge of Cat Man’s belly, making for the most flamboyant of human tummy dancing. Cat Man grabs hold of his belly as he would a ten-pound granite block, lifts it as high as he can, and then he lets go. At this point, the unpredictability of the jiggles creates a stunning visual effect. He repeats this process – lifting and letting go, and then the aftershock jiggle – as frequently and with the same intensity as the beats of the drum. From time to time he pauses, turns to the crowd, thrusts his arms high in the air, and waits for the applause to come raining down upon him. He cracks a smile – a Buddha-like smile – and then he breaks into a half-swagger, half-dance movement that gets him the greatest response of all.

Here is last Saturday’s scene: The five band members belt out a cover of “Wild Thing,” Peter Pan jams along, Cat Man bounces his belly fervently to the chorus, and others follow suit. The crowd moves in – closer, closer – and more begin to dance, and soon Cat Man, the band and the audience are all flushed together. Only Peter Pan keeps his distance – standing above them all, cradling his recorder with a concert inside.

I miss you all. Save some space – preferably a parking space –for my return to the City.

PS – My dear roommate Jack would like to let you know he hates work, but he does like girls and punk rock.